


Traditions

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Graduation, Inline with canon, M/M, Marriage Proposal, No Plot/Plotless
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-13
Updated: 2015-02-13
Packaged: 2018-03-10 16:47:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3297458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"In retrospect, Gokudera should have suspected something ridiculous." Yamamoto has an idea and Gokudera turns him down, at first.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Suggestion

In retrospect, Gokudera should have suspected  _something_  ridiculous.

Yamamoto has been entirely  _un_ suspicious all day, engrossed in the latest manga he’s been reading and apparently content to stretch out under the kotatsu and stay there for hours without moving. Gokudera would have complained at the other boy taking up all the space, but as it turns out Yamamoto’s legs fit remarkably well under his knees, and the other boy’s radiant heat is more than tolerable given the winter chill of the air. From where he’s sitting Gokudera can glance over and see the inch of bare skin at the back of Yamamoto’s neck, just between his collar and his hairline, and with Yamamoto lying on his stomach so he can hover over his book there’s no chance Gokudera will get caught with his gaze lingering. Yamamoto has a basket of cookies in front of him, has been eating them with the slow steady pace that promises devastation to the food in front of him, and Gokudera has a half-finished mandarin, the peel carefully stripped off to leave the slices for his consideration. It’s pleasant, actually, the warmth of the kotatsu and of Yamamoto’s jeans against Gokudera’s legs, and Gokudera, for once, isn’t thinking about anything at all other than idle contemplation of his current contentment, wondering if maybe this is how Yamamoto feels all the time.

“Hey, Gokudera.”

Yamamoto isn’t speaking that loudly, just his usual clear enunciation, but in the unusual peace of Gokudera’s thoughts the sound is startling. It makes him jump, flushes him hot with a rush of unnecessary adrenaline, and when he looks over at the back of Yamamoto’s head it’s with a frown the other doesn’t see.

“What?” he snaps.

Yamamoto doesn’t look back. To all appearances he’s still engrossed in the page in front of him; Gokudera is more than  half-expecting some question about an obscure reference in the plot. He is  _definitely_  not expecting what he hears, which is Yamamoto saying, “We should get married.”

Gokudera’s mouth comes open, trying to form itself around some sufficiently aggressive response that fails to materialize on his lips. There’s no question about his reply -- it’s just finding adequate levels of  _no_ , deciding where exactly to start with this, that is tripping him up.

“ _No_ ,” he finally manages, sticking with the straightforward route. “No,  _no_  we should not, what the hell is wrong with you?”

“You don’t think so?” Yamamoto looks back over his shoulder. He’s still holding a half-eaten cookie, eyes wide and curious like he really doesn’t understand Gokudera’s response.

“Of  _course_  not,” Gokudera snaps. He angles his leg, kicks at the back of Yamamoto’s leg so the other laughs a halfhearted “Ow” as Gokudera clarifies. “We’re in  _high school_ , we can’t get  _married_.” He tears off a slice of mandarin, eats it with somewhat more aggression than is needed, and Yamamoto is still blinking at him as if he hasn’t considered this. “And you can’t just casually say something like that, you have to do all the traditional stuff too.”

“Like what?”

Gokudera stares at Yamamoto, trying to decide if he’s being teased or not. If so Yamamoto is a much better actor than Gokudera has ever considered him to be; there’s no trace of mockery in his eyes or in the soft unconcern at his mouth. He appears to just be listening with complete attention, absorbing information like he sometimes does when Gokudera tries to help him with homework.

“Shouldn’t you know this part?” Gokudera finally demands, pulling another slice free to throw at Yamamoto’s head. It’s supposed to hit him but the other’s reflexes save him, get his hand up in time to catch the makeshift projectile so he can eat it instead. “Idiot. Everyone knows this, you need a ring and you kneel down and you’re supposed to  _ask_ , stupid, not just  _tell_.” He kicks at Yamamoto again, his ankle, this time, and Yamamoto grins and pulls his legs up so he can press his feet against Gokudera’s and cut off the other’s motion. Gokudera stops kicking but he maintains his glare, takes the next slice of mandarin for himself.

“And we’re in high school,” he repeats, the words vicious over his lips. “No one gets married before graduation. And who said I want to marry you anyway?” He looks down at the star-shaped peel spread out under the few remaining slices of the fruit. “We might not even be together in a few years.”

“We will be,” Yamamoto says, sounding so utterly certain of himself that Gokudera’s stomach drops like he’s in freefall for a moment.

“Don’t be an idiot,” Gokudera insists, throws another slice for Yamamoto to catch. “You don’t know that.”

“Yeah I do,” Yamamoto insists, with the gentle self-assurance that is no less absolute just because it sounds so casual. He’s grinning again, the soft curve of his mouth that always derails Gokudera’s thoughts more effectively than argument, and the only thing Gokudera can do is to offer a huff of skepticism before he reaches out to push the last slice of the mandarin past Yamamoto’s lips himself.

He wishes he could be as certain as Yamamoto is. Still, it becomes easier to believe him every time he sounds so secure in their future together, like his belief is catching contagious into Gokudera’s mind too, and Gokudera doesn’t even want to resist anymore.

He supposes that’s a kind of security in itself.


	2. Certainty

Yamamoto acts perfectly and entirely normal right up until the very last minute.

Gokudera would have expected at least a little bit of nervousness. Yamamoto has never cared very much about school, and Gokudera has never had anything to worry about academically, but still. Graduation should carry some kind of importance with it, in name if nothing else, and Yamamoto barely even looks any different. He is wearing a tie -- at Gokudera’s insistence, and at Gokudera’s tying -- and he has successfully tucked his shirt in, for once, but he is still grinning that easy smile with no trace of nerves, no suggestion of discomfort or hint that he doesn’t attend his high school graduation ceremony on a daily basis.

It grates on Gokudera’s patience, particularly because he  _is_  nervous, weirdly on-edge at this conclusion to a portion of his life he didn’t even think he cared about. It’s not like it changes his role within the Vongola, after all, it’s not like he’s moving or leaving any of the rest of the Family. But he’s still unwarrantedly anxious, the ceremony a symbol of the change he has learned to handle but not yet learned to like.

It helps, a little, when Yamamoto takes his hand with the ease of years of familiarity to tug him up the stairs towards the roof. It makes sense, that he would want to go back there, and if Gokudera’s honest with himself there’s some sense of nostalgia for him as well, a desire to revisit the familiar space before time moves on and his connection with it dissolves into nothing along with all the other importances of his past. The stairs are the same, the pace they set -- Yamamoto pulling ahead, Gokudera stomping in his wake -- painfully normal. Everything should be different, it ought to feel special, and it doesn’t, it’s all just the same as it has always been, until Yamamoto pulls the door to the roof open and they step out into the sunlight.

Gokudera squints out into the glow. It’s too bright, it burns when he stares out at the sky, but it helps distract him from the ache of loss in his chest and the tension of useless adrenaline in his hands. He wants to blow something up, he’s craving the cigarettes he quit months ago, and there’s no relief for him, nothing but the strain of anxiety twisting tight in his blood.

“This is stupid,” he declares, setting his diploma by the door so he can press his fingernails hard against his palms as he walks out towards the fence. The view is familiar, too, vertigo long since absent from habit, and if Gokudera ignores the milling students below he can almost pretend it’s a normal school day.

There’s the sound of footsteps jogging up behind him. Gokudera doesn’t turn. He’s winding his fingers through the fence, staring unseeing down at the scene below him, trying to reach for something to make this moment valuable, to make it something other than just another day.

“Gokudera?” Yamamoto says from behind him.

“Shut up,” Gokudera says without any fire.

He can hear Yamamoto take a breath, careful and shaking. “Hayato?”

Gokudera goes still. Yamamoto never calls him by his first name in public, even when it’s just the two of them as it is now, and besides his voice is quivering, trembling close to cracking like all his nervousness has hit him at once. Gokudera unwinds his fingers from the fence, starts to turn to face the other so he can see what’s wrong.

Then he sees that Yamamoto is kneeling, looking up at Gokudera’s face from his lower angle, and some long-delayed premonition burns through Gokudera’s thoughts and locks him entirely in place.

“Shit,” he says, perfectly clearly and with no thought at all, and Yamamoto’s expression breaks into a smile as much apology as anticipation.

“You said we needed to have graduated,” he says, like he’s reciting back from memory, and sensation is prickling up Gokudera’s spine like he’s being touched, his far hand is still caught on the links of the fence. He can feel the roughness of the metal under his fingertips as Yamamoto takes a breath and fits a hand into the pocket of his slacks. “And that I needed to be kneeling.” He looks away from Gokudera’s face for just a minute, forehead creasing in concentration as he pulls a pair of rings from his pocket and spreads them across his palm before picking up one and offering it to the sunlight as he looks back up. His smile is pulling into a grin, the threat of laughter curling at his lips as he holds the silver band out. “And had to have a ring.”

Gokudera reaches out, closes his hand on the smooth white of Yamamoto’s shirt like he can stop his words with the contact. “Shut up, don’t--”

Yamamoto grabs his wrist without looking away, slides Gokudera’s fingers loose, and somehow he has the other’s hand caught between his fingers and he’s still on his knees and Gokudera’s head is pounding, his thoughts are spinning frantic and out of control. “And that I had to ask and not tell.”

“Goddamn it,” Gokudera blurts, and then his voice cracks on all the ways he wants to tell Yamamoto to stop talking, and Yamamoto takes a breath and speaks into the silence.

“Gokudera Hayato.” His voice is low, weird and rich without the usual bubble of laughter Gokudera is used to hearing. His eyes are catching the light but going darker instead of brighter, shadows collecting and turning his gaze heavy with intent. “I want to marry you.” He slides one hand away, twists the ring up to his fingertips so he can offer it. “Will you?”

Gokudera tightens his fingers on the fence. He can’t pull his other hand away, can barely look at the ring itself for staring at the steady hope in Yamamoto’s face.

“ _Idiot_ ,” he finally chokes out past the knot of unintelligible emotion in his throat. “It’s been  _years_  and you remembered all that?”

Yamamoto laughs at that, brief and warm and sincere. “Of course.” His smile flickers for a moment, his eyes wide as he considers Gokudera’s expression. “Did I do it wrong?”

“Fuck,” Gokudera says, and he tries to pull at Yamamoto’s shirt to drag him to his feet. He overestimates his own stability, though, and Yamamoto has barely shifted when Gokudera’s balance gives way and he tips forward, has to let the support of the fence go to catch himself at Yamamoto’s shoulder as his knees bruise against the rooftop. Yamamoto reaches for him, catches his waist to brace him after Gokudera doesn’t need it anymore, and his eyes flicker from Gokudera’s eyes to Gokudera’s mouth, catch there like the other’s lips are magnetized for his gaze.

“Why do you have two rings?” Gokudera manages. The question is sincere, it lacks the rough edge he wants to give it, but given how hard his heart is pounding he’s pleased it comes out coherently at all.

“One’s for me,” Yamamoto says without looking up from Gokudera’s mouth. “To match.”

Gokudera drags at his shirt, shakes Yamamoto with all the aggression he can muster, which proves enough to rock him a few inches forward and back again. “ _Idiot_ ,” he hisses, and then he leans forward to kiss Yamamoto’s parted lips. Yamamoto tastes familiar as sunshine, warm as all the nostalgia Gokudera has been looking for, and he lingers longer than he intended, only pulling back after Yamamoto’s hold at his waist has gone slack with inattention. Yamamoto blinks, focuses on his mouth again, and Gokudera has to clear his throat to get his attention.

“I can’t believe you didn’t screw this up,” he growls. His fingers slide over Yamamoto’s shoulder, slide into the fine hair at the back of his neck so Yamamoto’s eyelashes flutter and he hums at the sensation. “It’s only because you listened to what I told you.”

Yamamoto blinks himself back to the present, fixes his attention on Gokudera’s eyes. “If I didn’t screw it up are you--”

“ _Yes_ ,” Gokudera snaps, quick, before Yamamoto can say it again. “Yes, okay?” He curls his fingers into a fist, tugs gently at Yamamoto’s hair. “Don’t say it again.”

Yamamoto lets a breath out at all once. It’s only in the absence of the stress that Gokudera can see where it was, can feel Yamamoto dropping into his usual bone-deep relaxation under the other’s touch. His eyes flutter shut, his mouth falls open, and when he leans in to bump against Gokudera’s cheek it’s more a caress than a plea for a kiss.

“I love you, Hayato,” he says, carefully soft against the collar of Gokudera’s jacket.

It’s faint, muffled by the fabric and quiet enough Gokudera could pretend not to hear. He  _would_  pretend not to hear, if it were another situation. But as it is he takes a breath, collects himself even as his cheeks burn instantly red with preemptive embarrassment.

“I love you too,” he mumbles, turning his head so the sound is caught on Yamamoto’s hair and shutting his eyes so he doesn’t have to pay attention to anything but the soft of the dark strands against his skin. “Takeshi.”

He intends it to sound unwilling, forced and bitter, but it comes out soft, shaking as badly as his hands as uncontrollable adrenaline takes over his bloodstream. Yamamoto laughs, lifts his head again, and this time he’s the one who leans in over the few inches of space to catch Gokudera’s lips with his own.

It’s a strange thing, to be relieved from the constant unknown of the future. Against the friction of Yamamoto’s mouth and the pressure of metal digging in against his palm, Gokudera thinks he might be able to get used to certainty.


End file.
